


Our Business is Rejoicing

by htebazytook



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1930's, Angst, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Music, Romance, Shostakovich, Slash, Smut, Soviet Union, Stalinism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-17
Updated: 2009-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:48:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>In Soviet Russia, music writes YOU.  No, really.  Contains history, angst, smut, and music, in roughly that order.  Title stolen from the following questionably legit Shostakovich quote: <i>It's as if someone were beating you with a stick and saying, "Your business is rejoicing, your business is rejoicing," and you rise, shaky, and go marching off, muttering, "Our business is rejoicing, our business is rejoicing.</i></p>
    </blockquote>





	Our Business is Rejoicing

**Author's Note:**

> In Soviet Russia, music writes YOU. No, really. Contains history, angst, smut, and music, in roughly that order. Title stolen from the following questionably legit Shostakovich quote: _It's as if someone were beating you with a stick and saying, "Your business is rejoicing, your business is rejoicing," and you rise, shaky, and go marching off, muttering, "Our business is rejoicing, our business is rejoicing._

**Title:** Our Business is Rejoicing  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairing:** Crowley/Aziraphale  
 **Author's Notes:** In Soviet Russia, music writes YOU. No, really. Contains history, angst, smut, and music, in roughly that order. Title stolen from the following questionably legit Shostakovich quote: _It's as if someone were beating you with a stick and saying, "Your business is rejoicing, your business is rejoicing," and you rise, shaky, and go marching off, muttering, "Our business is rejoicing, our business is rejoicing._

 

 

"I hope you know how difficult it was even getting here, my dear."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Are you with Us or with Them? I do need a straight answer out of you, you know."

"Right. Since when do I give away state secrets to the likes of you, angel?" Since when was Crowley synonymous with this place?

"Since the Arrangement, I believe." Aziraphale sips his tea, makes a face. "Oh, um. An interesting blend, to be sure."

Crowley sighs. "Yeah, Party membership can't buy everything, y'know."

"You couldn't just miracle—?"

"Nope. There's dozens of other . . . agents from my side lurking around."

Aziraphale doesn't look particularly perturbed by the implication that he might be surrounded by the denizens of Hell. "Oh?"

Crowley continues: "You know, sometimes I really do wonder if the reason the Boss was so insistent on us flanking this guy is because he _is_ the Boss. Or the Antichrist."

Well, at least Aziraphale looks a bit more terrified by _that_.

"I dunno though," Crowley says. "It's hard to be sure of anything around here." He can tell Aziraphale is finally noticing how tired he looks. Having all these other demons around makes Crowley too self-conscious to miracle anything and he's definitely the worse for wear because of it.

"Well, any information about what which way Stalin is leaning, any at all . . ." Aziraphale had learned that wheedling tone of voice from him, hadn't he?

Crowley sighs. "This is really gonna happen, huh? What're we calling this one—the Even Greater War? I think that might already be happening _here_ , come to think of it . . ."

"Crowley." Crowley can't tell if it's impatience or sympathy. He's not a fan of either.

"Look, I don't know why you think I'd know anything about this. It's not like . . . it's not just politics." He sighs. There are some things you just can't get through to Aziraphale. "Well, he definitely doesn't trust Hitler, but then again he doesn't trust _anybody_ , so. I mean, nobody knows what he's thinking . . ."

"Fair enough." Aziraphale goes to sip his tea again, thinks better of it. Crowley's forgotten to remember all of his mannerisms and they jump out at him with unwelcome nostalgia. How many years has it been? His eyes lift to Crowley's, grey and dark like the winters here. That rush of gratitude he'd felt when Aziraphale first walked in the door won't go away. "Well that's enough talking shop for now, I think. How are you doing over here?"

Crowley can't stop the laughter. "Oh, there's been plenty of excitement, that's for sure. Long live the Revolution and all that . . ."

Aziraphale definitely seems concerned now. "Maybe you ought to come back to England before the war breaks out."

"Look, Aziraphale . . . do you even know for sure that it's happening? I mean, for _sure?_ "

Aziraphale nods, looks down at his sub-par tea. "It's been confirmed, yes," he says carefully. "There's something else, though." And he's clearly been rehearsing this, takes a minute to run over the proper wording in his head: "As you know, He gave Man fire. Well, erm. Just wait 'til you see what He's giving the Americans."

"The Americans?" Crowley frowns. "Why would _they_ get involved in . . . ?"

"Oh, you'll see. Thank goodness I don't have to deal with it—out of my jurisdiction, but . . ." Aziraphale has only been in Leningrad for a couple of hours and already he's beginning to take on the weary, nervous quality of its population.

Part of him hopes Aziraphale will get the hell out of the country before he looks at somebody the wrong way and is declared an enemy of the people. The other, more pathetic part of him is just glad to have some company.

"Listen, I've gotta be somewhere," Crowley says, standing. "Try to stay out of trouble, okay?"

 

*

 

The way people live here, obedient and incapable of anything else, is approximately the way he and Aziraphale have lived for six-thousand years. He'd expected himself to take some small pleasure in it happening to His Ineffability's favorites for a change, but he's beginning to find he wouldn't wish it on anybody. Which is pathetic.

He's as gloomy as the weather, and abstaining from his usual supernatural cheats really isn't helping.

"How much longer, Dmitri?"

"Can't rush art, Anton."

"That's kind of why I'm here, actually."

"Can't rush decent art, then." Dmitri's muttering all of this, focused on the score he's scribbling over.

Crowley lounges against the desk, points at something on a discarded piece of paper. " _This_ is simpler?" Crowley's eyes zip obsessively over the notes behind his sunglasses. "Seriously, how much longer? You know I don't give a shit about chronicling your Progress. It's not like they can ever be absolutely sure they've converted you."

Flash of a smile across Dmitri's face. "You shouldn't talk like that. Even if you are right." He splashes crescendos over the score before looking at Crowley, little twitch of his face. "Nothing is the way it seems."

"That's usually the case, yeah."

"So I want you to think when you hear this next month: it is 'nothing more' than my response to 'justified' criticism. And report something to that effect, as well."

"A month, huh?" Dmitri goes back to work and Crowley peers over his shoulder. "Hey, is that really supposed to be in the timpani part? Bit overkill, isn't it?"

"This is an anthem for Our Great Leader. So yes, overkill is exactly how I'd phrase it."

Crowley itches to egg him on, persuade him to do something even bolder—temptation is in his blood, after all. Just . . . satirical symphonies are all well and good, but he's _human_ —he's not gonna be around for much longer, so why won't he just _go_ for it?

 

*

 

"Mr Shostakovich is shaping up, then?"

"That's what I said. The premiere's in a month—do you think He'll come?"

"Who knows? Didn't you get the latest memo, Crawly?"

Crowley's been meeting with enemies of the people all day. "Which one?"

"Wow, y'know, Hastur wasn't kidding when he said you were a lazy excuse for a demon. Did you even tempt anyone today?"

"I'm assigned to Dmitri, remember?"

"Yeah, by Him, not by _Him_."

"You're going to have to be more specific," Crowley smiles, enjoys watching the other demon squirm. Names mean a lot to those who spend most of their time Below.

"Yeah, well, it's not my job to summarize your call-phonies, Crawly . . ."

"Phone calls."

". . . but it _is_ my job to tempt humans. Which _I_ did, at least." This one is way too enthusiastic about his 'job' up here, eyes alight. "If we keep going at this rate, we're gonna run out of people to tempt!"

"And by tempt you mean massacre, I assume." Crowley doesn't even care how snidely it comes out. "Hey, _wait_ a minute—isn't that exactly what God did to us? Throw us out because we questioned _just_ a little and—"

The other demon shudders. " _Ahhh_ , you did _not_ just utter the Name. Warn a guy, would you? It's _nothing_ like that. Old Whiskers is on our side—we have to—"

"Oh sure, just keep telling yourself that. You can't even say _his_ name." Neither could Crowley, just in case, but that was moot. "Who cares whose side he's on? He's a piece of shit and he's out of his mind and I don't know what the Boss sees in him."

" _Who cares whose side he's on?_ Man, Crawly, if you went around saying this stuff Below you'd—well, let's just say what I've been doing all day doesn't even begin to compare." The other demon smiles toothily at him. Sometimes Crowley forgets he isn't talking to Aziraphale.

 

*

 

The premiere is fast approaching and Crowley hasn't seen Aziraphale for days. He knows the angel won't leave before saying goodbye, waits impatiently for him to show up and promotes the symphony with his Comrades in the meantime.

When Aziraphale does show up there are circles under his eyes and his voice angles tiredly downwards. "Please take me someplace with a decent wine list before I miracle something," he says, apparently having given up on miracles after a few weeks in the scrutinizing city, too.

They have drinks in an upscale restaurant, Crowley buying them some privacy with human money for once. He's surprised by the passable merlot and the way the country's collective, nervous atmosphere penetrates even the most privileged levels of society.

"Guess _what?_ " Crowley asks him after an indecent number of drinks.

Aziraphale just looks blearily at him, face flushed, raises an eyebrow.

" _You're_ coming to the premiere of Dmitri Shostakovickle—sostenuto—Shososhosss—his symphony. It's bound to be a happy happy patriotic experience. And you'll enjoy it whether you like it or not. Mm, power to the People!" Crowley laughs at himself, knocks back the rest of his glass.

Aziraphale sips from his own to buy time. "Yes. Heard about it. What makes you think I'm going to, um, wanna hear your . . . what's it called? Sneaky thing. Propaganda! I mean, I mean going is as good as endorsing them—it—y'know?"

Crowley sighs. "It's _not_. You'll like it, I promissse." Grins broadly at him and doesn't even care how contrary to his image it is.

" _Still_. I don't wanna get—oh, boy—in-doc . . . _tri_ -nat-ed. My dear. Okay?" Aziraphale looks . . . angelic in the dim lighting with the room going in and out of focus. Glowy.

"Aw, come _on_ ," Crowley tempts in his best serpent-voice.

"What _I_ wannaknow is—since when does a demon . . . of your taste recommennnd such drivel?" Aziraphale asks suspiciously, trying to pour another glass for himself.

"You're not fooling anybody, y'know, Azzzirevich. And you're _coming_ to the blessed premiere."

 

*

 

Crowley had missed him, that much he can admit. Crowley had missed being able to talk about work freely, missed the freedom to talk about anything but. Aziraphale and freedom, both equally tempting.

It seems like arguments over the Great War had happened yesterday, philosophical debates on Napoleon only last week.

He's not sure how long it's actually been since Aziraphale arrived in Leningrad, busy chronicling Dmitri's 'progress' and listening to his colleagues, diabolical and otherwise, gloating about what they've done for the Party lately. Even watched a couple hundred people get rehabilitated to death.

Crowley is sitting in his apartment, trying to pretend he's had a normal enough day when Aziraphale bursts in, self-righteousness leaking from every pore. Crowley is _not_ in the mood for this, doesn’t deserve it. He looks up from his reverie when Aziraphale pronounces his name, takes in Aziraphale's anger and scary, otherworldly eyes and breathlessness and can't help liking what he sees, just a little. Getting Aziraphale riled up is always an accomplishment, no matter the circumstances.

Unfortunately it isn't really Crowley's doing this time even though Aziraphale seems to think so: "I've only been in this country for a week and I've already . . . Have you even _heard_ what these people are thinking? More like screaming, really." Oh man, he is _pissed_.

"Can't say that I have," Crowley says sarcastically. He's been trying to ignore the white noise of their misery for years. There was only so much subconscious anguish a demon could take in one sitting, and Crowley's subconscious was booked for the rest of eternity.

"You've _let_ this happen! You haven't tried to stop it. You didn't . . . you didn't even tell _me_."

Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose, sunglasses in the way. Figures he might as well remove them if they're going to have this conversation. Stands and looks at him. "You think I _want_ to do this? I don't have a choice, Aziraphale. You and I don't get to choose _anything_."

"Well . . . Yes, you're right—we aren't allowed to, theoretically. But that doesn't mean we can't."

"Means our lives will be fucked if we go against either of Them too much."

"We chose to have the Arrangement. To stop fighting." Crowley doesn't think caring about Aziraphale had been a choice at all since choosing it made little to no sense. Ineffable. Aziraphale stares at him, willing him to understand, and abruptly Crowley realizes that he might be worried about _him_ , and that's like a punch to the gut.

"Since when—" Aziraphale starts off loud, catches himself and tries talking normally: "Since when do you voluntarily work so closely with other demons? I thought you were quite above getting your hands dirty." He doesn't say it with disgust but the word _coward_ hangs in the air anyway. Crowley knows he's a coward, isn't happy about it, but he does know.

Why in Someone's name does Aziraphale care so much?

He really hopes they can just drop the subject and pretend it never came up. All it does is remind him that he really is as evil as the next demon, whether he likes it or not. Makes it harder to live his life like he's somehow different from the rest.

"Yeah, me too," Crowley says, not sure if he's inflected his words correctly. "Obviously I _prefer_ to work with a little more class, but what can you do?"

Aziraphale doesn't look like he's satisfied with that, stares steadily at him for awhile and makes Crowley feel judged and the exact opposite of classy. Looks around Crowley's apartment at the bare shelves, watches Crowley's discarded sunglasses on the table in case they make any sudden moves—the angel's not sure if he wants to say what he wants to say.

"Remember when I didn't tell you about the atomic bomb the Americans are going to come up with?"

"Yes. Well, technically no, but—"

"The only reason it's happening is for the Apocalypse. For Us to use."

Crowley blinks. "But that's. I mean, it can't be time al _ready_."

"Not quite yet. Before the turn of the century." He says it mildly, but Crowley can tell he's freaking out because he still won't look at him.

"That's . . . the whole reason you came here. Isn't it? Well, what do you want _me_ do to? It's, it's not like we could . . . stop . . ." Crowley looks more closely at him. "Oh, Aziraphale. You want to _stop_ it."

Aziraphale meets his gaze, looks lost and a little unhinged. "If we worked together . . . "

Crowley is tempted. And since when does Crowley resist temptation? "Absolutely not. You're crazy. You're fucking _insane_ , angel. Why did you even tell me about this? What exactly do you think would happen if anybody found out you were even _thinking_ this?" Something worse than a vacation at the Gulag, that's what.

And then it hits him.

This is precisely what Crowley's been looking for—this could be Crowley's own fifth symphony. Two-faced and clever and undermining Below without them even knowing, getting bloody _commendations_ for his apparent good work. Prevent the Apocalypse? It _is_ crazy, but . . .

Aziraphale surges forward, touches Crowley's arm in an embarrassingly comforting gesture. Tempting him still: "We could do this. You aren't _like_ other demons."

Whether it's true or not, Crowley loves him for believing it. "You really have no idea what I'm like." He's never going to have the guts to go through with treason, even with Aziraphale.

Aziraphale kisses him—hard, oddly chaste press of lips that sets unidentifiable emotions loose in Crowley's body. Heart forgetting to beat, breath suddenly necessary, apprehensive twist in his stomach. He's got to touch him—finds his hands migrating up the angel's arms, around his neck. Kisses him back until Aziraphale's mouth opens. Brain dipping into faintness for a minute, awakening to a proper kiss—all firm movement of mouths and firm slide of limbs and firm heartbeats speeding up.

"What are we doing?" Crowley asks, head off to the side and unable to look at him.

Aziraphale laughs, a little sad, mouth nudging his. "Well, I missed you."

Crowley acquiesces to the kiss for a minute, pulls back again. "S'only been . . . twenty years?"

"Twenty-three."

They're kissing again, Aziraphale pulling him close. Crowley feels the tension drain out of his body, opens his mouth on a sigh and lets Aziraphale take advantage and introduce tongue into the proceedings. Crowley feels him moan and shivers in response.

Aziraphale's hands grab at Crowley like he's trying to stay afloat, and Crowley just closes his eyes and revels in his closeness, loses himself in the way Aziraphale tilts his head just so to kiss him, the hand tangling his hair, the scent of old books and memory.

They stumble through Crowley's respectable parlor, get caught in a doorway where Crowley breaks the kiss to suck at Aziraphale's neck and press him against the wood paneling, lays in wait with his heart thudding for his name, kisses lightly up Aziraphale's jaw in the meantime and starts undoing his tie.

"Crowley," Aziraphale murmurs, finally, fingers tumbling into his hair, to the back of his neck to hold him in place. Crowley feels warmth surge through his body, wonders why his name in Aziraphale's voice makes his blood pound. Because Aziraphale knows his real name but calls him 'Crowley' anyway? Maybe. But it still doesn't make any biological sense. It's not like Below would've programmed his body to have a specific reaction to members of the Host . . . well, then again . . .

" _Mmf_ ," he says, not sure how else to phrase it. Aziraphale's demanding hands are caught up in Crowley's shirt while he treads backwards to the bed, mouth wet and inarticulate in their conversation.

Aziraphale pulls off Crowley's tie with surprising dexterity and all Crowley can do is watch him, panting. Watch Aziraphale's frown of concentration, way too familiar and way too exciting in this context. Crowley's brain is off balance, feels like it's is sinking through his body and into the floor while Aziraphale struggles with the buttons on his shirt, raises a hand and starts to sketch the—

" _Wait!_ " Crowley lunges for Aziraphale's hand, ends up knocking them over onto the bed in the process, Aziraphale warm and writhing beneath him, treacherous hand tangled with Crowley's in accidental intimacy. "No, uh, no miracles."

"Why—?"

Crowley kisses him in lieu of an answer, fights off shockwaves from the knowledge that they're really going to do this again. Sometimes sex seems as normal as debating. Sometimes, Crowley isn't sure if he's been dreaming their past encounters and _this_ isn't the first time he's ever tasted the angel, made him moan. Aziraphale's hands slide between them and manage to undo the final few buttons on Crowley's shirt. Crowley breaks the kiss to toss it aside, falls back into Aziraphale's aura.

He's surprised by how much the little breaks they take to remove clothing the human way build suspense, suffocate him with anticipation.

Aziraphale's half-dressed and on top of him and Crowley feels utterly at his disposal, obsessed with Aziraphale's mouth painting his skin. Crowley basks in him, wonders why Aziraphale wants to do this.

He lines Aziraphale's hips up with his, presses them together until Aziraphale groans against Crowley's shoulder, looks up with hazy, fluttering eyes that make Crowley's heart flutter in response. He has to kiss him _now_ , again, forever.

Later, sweating on each other and hands gripping desperately, moving together and straining for release, Aziraphale's eyes scrunch closed and he sobs, says Crowley's name in that particular, lilting way that only Aziraphale does and it rips a moan from Crowley's throat, makes them kiss again and move faster, harder . . . _perfect_.

Crowley looks over at his counterpart, sweaty and sated and glowing in the human sense of the word. He looks content and anything but angelic, which is exactly what Crowley wants.

He thinks that, under the right circumstances, he might do anything to keep Aziraphale around for the long term. But he's just not sure if he wants to fall again.

 

*

 

By the time that timpani part starts up again, the humans' emotions are impossible to block out and Crowley has to hold his breath and close his eyes and pretend he doesn't feel it. The soundtrack of their voices, a wretched catharsis, holds its own against Dmitri's falsely brilliant finale and Crowley's being assaulted from all sides, can't stop thinking about Aziraphale feeling all of this too. Maybe he'll understand why Crowley can't be a little braver, now.

 _You were right,_ Aziraphale tells him from somewhere.

_I was . . . what do you mean?_

_People are crying._

_Where are you sitting?_

_The first balcony. Are you in a box?_

_Yeah . . . oh, I. I see you._ Crowley sees him. Crowley sees Aziraphale glowing across the hall. It isn't visible to the majority of the audience, but it's drawing Crowley in like a magnet as if to make up for it. He doesn't think his body has the right idea about how he ought to react to an angel, and he's starting to fear that his soul—well, consciousness, doesn't either.

The applause is deafening, people jumping to their feet and clapping their hands raw in every corner of the hall. They look just as winded as the orchestra. Dmitri's gotta be around here somewhere, and it _worked_ , and Crowley can't avoid being envious. It's a sin, after all.

He knows that Aziraphale never really took his offer off the table. If the world's really going to end in a matter of decades then what has Crowley got to lose, really?

The angel cuts into his thoughts again: _Meet . . . meet me in the lobby._

_Aziraphale?_

_Just hurry up._

When Crowley gets there, the angel is the only thing on the stately marble floor, the only thing for miles. He's motionless and wide-eyed like a spooked animal, staring at Crowley as he approaches. Starts talking before Crowley's quite close enough.

"Please come back to England." It echoes loudly, some ulterior significance, and Crowley feels his world zooming in on Aziraphale. The humans' desperate applause is closing in on them.

"I can't yet. In a couple of years, after the war—"

"How can you stand it here?"

Crowley can't look at him anymore. "Well, I've got to."

 

*


End file.
